


Without Getting Better, The Darkness Gets Bigger

by elfofthedarkside



Category: Fall Out Boy, The Youngblood Chronicles (Music Video)
Genre: Angst, I should be sorry but I'm not, Loads of Angst, M/M, Possessed Patrick Stump, Song: Miss Missing You (Fall Out Boy), but this time it only sort of works, no happy ending, that overdone au where pete tries to bring patrick back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 11:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14236593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfofthedarkside/pseuds/elfofthedarkside
Summary: Patrick--was that even really his name?--has one mission. Find, kill, retrieve. No memories of anything but pain, especially not of this man who finally has given up on running. Good. Patrick is tired of chasing. But why does that man keep looking at him that way?Alternate ending to Miss Missing You video.





	Without Getting Better, The Darkness Gets Bigger

**Author's Note:**

> Well, uh. Didn't expect to write something else this quickly. ESPECIALLY not something this angsty. I know, I know. I want my boys to be happy. But I also want them to suffer. It's an interesting relationship I have with these two.
> 
> I wrote this in three hours, and barely went back to "proofread," so there (definitely) might be typos ahead.

Patrick saw. Patrick saw the fear and anger in the man’s eyes. Patrick saw the way his body language shifted; done running and ready to end it all. Patrick couldn’t agree more.

Somewhere, Patrick knew this wasn’t…  _ Patrick _ . This was some animalistic drive, the deepest parts of his mind drowning out everything else but  _ kill-take-finish-retrieve-end. _ Patrick didn’t know much. But he knew who Patrick was--who he was supposed to be. A man with a mission. Burn it all. Destroy this…  _ person _ .  _ Obstacle. _

“Patrick,” the man said, voice a forced calm. Patrick didn’t know that voice. He  _ didn’t. _ “Patrick, I know you can hear me.”

Patrick heard. Yes, he heard. Listened, no. Comprehended, barely. The music, the  _ noise _ overtook most of his thoughts. What was another voice to Patrick? Whether they formed words of anger, words of fear, screams of pain, or gasps for breath didn’t matter. In the end, they were just more noises. Noises to be silenced.

“Patrick, look at me.”

A plea. Pleas were different. Perhaps the mixture of emotions behind it. It was never  _ just _ fear,  _ just _ concern. No matter. It caught Patrick’s attention this time, unbidden.

“Patrick. This isn’t you.”

Patrick felt a growl forming in his chest, rumbling its way up through his damaged throat-- _ how had that gotten damaged? _ Was there anything else Patrick could be? He was Patrick. That was the only thing he was sure of.

“Trick, listen to me.”

That was different. This man called him something different. Not Patrick. A name never used before to describe him.  _ But then, why does it sound so familiar? Why did it roll off his tongue so easily? _

Patrick snapped his laser-focused gaze from the briefcase to the man’s face, yellow eyes meeting brown. A snarl curled his lip as he stepped in a wide circle around his prey.

“I know you’re in there somewhere,” the man insisted once more.  _ Once more? Had he seen this man somewhere else? _ “Just look at me. Come back. It’s me.”

Patrick opened his mouth, surprised when actual words formed. “Give it.”

The man looked hurt, but didn’t obey. The pointed tip of his blade just barely traced the dirt as he turned to keep his face towards Patrick. “You used to be with me, Patrick. With  _ us. _ You used to want to keep this safe.”

_ Us? _ The word sounded unfamiliar, yet a bright memory flashed before him. Thick brown hair and cracked smiles. Ink-traced skin and quiet jokes.

_ Dull blue eyes and ligature-bruising. Pain-twisted features and blood pools. _

“Give. It.” Patrick repeated firmly, eyes blinking rapidly to make the picture fade.

“Patrick, please. I-” The man swallowed back his initial speech, instead saying, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Hurt. Pain. Yes, finally. Something the man said that was familiar. Patrick had no love for pain, not with himself, anyway. Pain was his first memory. Drilling, white-hot and sharp pain. His hand-- _ did there even used to be a hand there? _ \--throbbed at the thought. His throat, scream-raw and burning, forced out the words, “Don’t you?”

“I could never.” The man’s voice now shook with the emotion he had tried to hide. Patrick had no love for pain, but this man’s suffering would surely be enjoyable.

“But you will hurt me anyways.” Patrick-- _ if that really was his name _ \--knew somehow what words to say to make the man let down his guard further.

“If I have to,” the man said with a shuddering breath. He lifted his weapon, daring to drop the briefcase to the dirt in favor of wrapping both hands around the bass’ frets. “But before I do, you have to convince me.”

“Of what?” Patrick was growing tired of speaking, though it did feel like he hadn’t done so in a very long time.

“That you don’t know me.” The man gritted his teeth. “Patrick, please. Look at me.”

“I don’t,” Patrick replied instantly, without doubt. Still, for some reason, he complied with his prey’s plea. His final.

Those brown eyes shimmered in the desert heat, but it wasn’t simply a trick of the dying sunlight. His eyes watered, filling with  _ tears. _ Patrick knew tears. They meant fear. They meant sadness. A muscle in the man’s face twitched, trying to keep his quickly deteriorating defenses up. “Tell me. Look me in the eyes and tell me. Say ‘I don’t know you.’”

Patrick opened his mouth to repeat the words, but something else took over. Those eyes…

_ Those eyes… _

The tears. Patrick knew those tears. They were the tears of a man who had lost everything. He had seen those tears before.

He had seen that man with those tears before.

_ “Patrick…” _

The voice was the same as the man standing before him, but the man hadn’t moved his lips.

_ “I… I don’t think I can…” _

_ “What’s going on? Are you okay?” _

_ “...” _

_ “Pete, it’s nearly 4am. There’s something wrong. What is it?” _

_ “I need you.” _

The plea rang through Patrick’s mind. The man’s voice broke, and Patrick’s own replied.

_ “Where are you? Are you… did you do something?” _

_ “I can’t…”  _ Another sob.  _ “Please, Patrick. I’m scared. I… I did something bad. I need you. Please.” _

Patrick felt the words shoot through him like a bolt of lightning. The man before him seemed to sway. No, that wasn’t him. Patrick was falling.

_ Those tears. Those eyes. Those hands. That voice. _

_ How could I forget? _

As his knees solidly hit the ground, the name came spilling over his lips.

“Pete.”

Pete-- _ yes, yes, Pete! How could he forget Pete? _ \--rushed to catch him, holding him up by his shoulders as his body began to shake.

“Patrick.”

Patrick felt that feeling, that  _ urge _ creeping up again from the corners of his mind. His good hand reached up of its own accord,  _ to hurt _ , but Patrick gritted his teeth and refused. He forced it to curl itself into Pete’s shirt; his dirty, grimey, bloodstained and torn shirt. He leaned forwards, pressing his nose into Pete’s abdomen and breathing deeply. It was like the first breath he had had since… since who knows when? It was filled with sweat and blood, dry and dirty like the desert surrounding them. It was perfect. It grounded him.

Pete was here. Pete was real. Pete was alive.

_ Pete could end this. _

The wave of relief was quickly overtaken by the riptide of guilt.  _ Joe. Andy. Who else have I killed? _ The thought sent a shudder through him, those dark thoughts and impulses rising up once again.

“No.”

“Patrick, it’s okay.” Pete’s grip on his weapon had loosened, and one of his hands was gently carding through Patrick’s dirty, matted hair. “You’re okay.”

“Not okay.” That  _ feeling _ was coming back, nearly choking off his words. “Can’t hold it. Need-”

“Yes, you can.” Pete’s encouragement fell upon ears deafened by the struggle to stay in control.

“Need-” He tried again. That urge pushed his words down. Patrick pushed back, swallowing his fear. “Need you- you need to-”

Patrick could almost cry. Here he was, in Pete’s arms again, and was about to be ripped away once more. The idea of what had to happen filled his stomach with dread.

“Patrick-”

“End it.” Patrick nearly spat out the words. He somehow pulled his hand away from Pete’s shirt, instead joining Pete’s other hand that was still wrapped around his weapon. Hand shaking, from fear or exertion he didn’t know, he guided the tip of the blade until it met the fluttering flesh of his throat. “Please.”

Pete’s eyes-- _ those beautiful, still-tear-filled eyes _ \--widened. “You… no.” He shook his head. “I can’t. Won’t.”

“Pete, please.” Now it was Patrick’s voice that broke. He felt the warm metal vibrate against his skin as the forced words left him. “I deserve it. I can’t- can’t hold it back- not much longer.”

“I can’t,” Pete whispered.

“Pete…” Patrick’s breath shuddered as he spoke. “Protect it. Save it. Do what I couldn’t.”

“Patrick, I won’t-”

Patrick let out a laugh when he realized his own eyes were streaming tears down his face. “We were the protectors. Now there’s… just you. Run. Live.”

Pete wrenched the weapon out of Patrick’s grip, tossing it aside before dropping to his own knees. “Not without you,” he breathed, and when he gently cupped a hand to Patrick’s cheek, Patrick barely remembered how to himself.

“Need you, Trick.”

Patrick didn’t have time to recall the last time Pete had told him that, because now his dry, chapped lips were pressed against Patrick’s. He sighed deeply, allowing Pete to take over at least this. His defenses were crumbling, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not now. He tasted blood, even though Pete’s pace was slow and gentle. The idea that  _ maybe that was neither of their blood _ ripped through his mind.

No.

Patrick knew what had to be done.

Patrick broke the kiss, leaning back, chest heaving. Pete’s cheeks were streaked with trails of drying tears that ran through the layer of filth covering his face. Patrick felt his control slipping, but he wouldn’t let anything else happen. It was the end.

He smiled up at Pete, a sudden calm rushing over him as he whispered, “I love you.”

Then, raising his left hand, raising that terrible  _ hook _ , he pressed the sharp point to his throat. Pressing, harder, deeper,  _ more, _ until the sound of breaking flesh filled his ears. He dug further still, working deeper, around that  _ artery _ , around his  _ windpipe _ . Pete’s anguished cry was the last thing he heard as he pulled,  _ harder, further, more… _

Patrick felt. Patrick felt the white-hot, searing pain as the dirty hook pulled itself free from his own neck. He felt the blood pouring down his chest, soaking his shirt, spraying and hitting someone-- _ Pete _ . He felt the sounds meeting his ears fall silent, the only thing left a deafening quiet.

Patrick saw. Yes, Patrick saw. Understood, perhaps not. Processed, not exactly. But Pete was there, eyes staring into his. And that was all that mattered.

_ Burn it all. _

Yes. Patrick would surely burn for his crimes. But if the last image he saw was Pete’s face, he supposed he didn’t mind dying.

**Author's Note:**

> I know. YBC should end happy. Hell, after everything they went through all four of my boys deserve it. But that ain't gonna happen today. Not on my watch.
> 
> Please, leave a comment telling me how much you hate me. Remember, every kudos is another day in my life sentence for writing this shit.


End file.
